What's Good, What's True
by Bitter Shade
Summary: Small-town Bella, working in London, meets local musician/tattoo artist Edward. Before long, these two weary souls find what's missing from their respective worlds in each other, and the unfamiliar beauty of having something to lose. AU/AH Canon pairings -ON HIATUS/remodeling-
1. The Underachiever's Manifesto

**What's Good, What's True**

**1. The Underachiever's Manifesto**

"Bella, I think you need to read this. Immediately."

Haze. A fuzzy blue square.

The brunette blinked twice to clear her vision, peering through black-frame glasses to the words on the blue square. A book. Of course. That would make sense with the instructions to read it, wouldn't it?

"_The Underachiever's Manifesto_, Rosalie? Really?" Deadpan, contralto voice. Her brown eyes, more lucid with this grudgingly welcome distraction, flicked up to the sneering blonde that towered over the old cherry wood desk.

"It was that, or I book you on Dr. Phil for intervention."

The one called Bella winced. "Whatever happened to the concepts of subtlety and happy mediums?"

"You forfeited those, along with your soul while we're on the subject, when you took this job and moved to England."

"Ah, right, right," she conceded. Leaning back in her chair, she crossed one lean leg over the other, peeling off her glasses with a toss to open notebooks smeared across the table, and subsequently rubbed her eyes. "Since when you do read books, Rose?"

She heard Rosalie's jaw snap shut before opening again and drawing in an exasperated breath. A pause. "Alright, I didn't read it. But it had the most fitting title when I went through the self-help section. Clearly got the point across, no?"

Bella couldn't resist the laugh, pulling her hands away from her face. "You, in the self-help section? I can imagine the rumors now..."

"Yeah, laugh it up," Rosalie sneered, not unkindly. She leaned a slender hip against the desk, smirking down at her friend. "It was necessary. You should heed my advice on principle alone, what with me throwing caution to the wind at the expense of my reputation."

"The horror! Of course, Rose, what was I thinking?"

"You weren't, obviously," she replied, rolling her cobalt eyes theatrically.

"Of course not."

They grinned at each other for a long moment, Rosalie finally breaking the silence with a dramatic huff. "Come on, nerd. We're going out. I've got on four inch stilettos. No room to screw with me."

"Yes, ma'am," Bella sighed, yawning as she slinked up from her chair. Turning off the desk lamp, she snagged her BlackBerry from the only clear corner of the desk and shoved it in her courier bag, slinging the strap over her slight frame. T-shirt, slim jeans, sneakers. She looked like a college student, she realized with a wince.

"Bellaaaaaa," Rosalie drawled in a whine. "No BlackBerry."

"Yes, BlackBerry," she rebutted simply without missing a beat. "You know the rules."

"Bah! Rules are meant to be broken."

"Hey, just because you've got a father and a whole corporate empire that have no issues discreetly bailing you out of jail doesn't mean my life works on quite the same wavelength. You know how often the boss calls."

The blonde blew out a breath in the form of a disgruntled half-raspberry and towed Bella through their living room by an arm. "I thought he was in a _dinner meeting_ tonight. What the fuck would he call for?"

Bella didn't miss the emphasis on the title of her boss' evening engagement, and her lips quirked up in a smirk.. "Rose, Laurent calls in a panic when he can't find his _socks_. What _wouldn't_ he call for?"

"Touché," she sighed, snagging her red purse from their tan leather sofa.

"And, Rose," Bella piped up again, closing their apartment door behind them and checking the lock three times to be sure it was secure, "you know, cursing is the lazy man's way of being emphatic. Not that I would attempt to impede your personal liberty to speak as you wish, but I just figured a woman of your education and stature--"

"Yeah, yeah, save it. I've already got it memorized."

"Just making sure."

Rosalie smiled brightly and opened the building's front door, holding it and gesturing to her friend with a grandiose wave of her arm. "After you."

Bella stuck her tongue out at Rosalie and the two of them stepped into the crisp night air of London.

* * *

"I told you it would be fun, didn't I?"

"Yes, Rosalie, stale smoke and warm beer that has the consistency of mud. My favorite things."

Rosalie turned from where she was watching the stage and stared flatly at Bella. Then she smiled like an imp. "Hey, at least that hot bartender thought you had a cute American accent."

"That was you, Rose. You told me about it when you came back to the table with the mud-beer."

"Oh, did I?" she replied absently, already turning her attention back to the small stage, barely a rise in the floor in the corner.

Bella just chuckled good-naturedly and shook her head, coffee brown eyes taking in the scene before her. The place had a decent crowd, not overwhelming as it was Tuesday, to her great relief. The stage was on the opposite corner from their booth, a piano consuming most of its space, a microphone attached. It had remained unoccupied since they'd arrived, the only music wafting from the speakers placed meticulously about the modestly sized room.

She had to admit that the pub had its charm. Clearly a place for the locals of the area, tucked away in a shadowed corner of the inner city. The walls and floor were coated in strips of rich oak, inviting off-white light from smatterings of simple wall sconces, and tasteful pieces of various art prints conservatively speckled here and there, mixed amongst photographs of thousands of different people that had visited the bar throughout its history.

Rosalie had chosen this place for Bella's sake, she was sure, its humility and homey atmosphere welcoming. The explicit wealth of Westminster, where they resided at her boss' expense, was something that she found overwhelming, but Bella didn't see much point in complaining. It was the lot she'd chosen, to come to London at the whim of her neurotic boss, her best friend tagging along for the sake of a change of scenery, she'd insisted. She liked boys with British accents, Rosalie had said with a casual shrug of her statuesque shoulders.

Life was always so simple, no doubt.

Bella smiled warmly at her friend's profile. Their worlds were entirely different in most facets, but neither minded the difference. Rosalie was as sharp as a razor, and considerable well-adjusted, in spite of her dysfunctional family life. The Hale family was one of old money, power-obsessed, and pompous, and Rosalie had taken to spending her father's money frivolously as a debt he owed her as she worked through her familial issues. Bella couldn't really complain about that. The girl was making progress. Her commitment habits, however—or lack thereof—were something else entirely, but Bella wouldn't push the girl too hard too fast. She'd made a tremendous difference in the four years that Bella had known her, once hateful and smarmy to honest and empathetic.

"He's looking this way again," Rosalie declared in a soft, silky voice, mischief painting every syllable.

Bella blinked out of her thoughtful stupor and followed Rosalie's gaze toward the bar. She snickered. The bartender, all dimples and impeccably straight teeth, displaying unfettered appreciation for the beauty that was Rosalie.

"Go talk to him," Bella said with a shrug, as though it was absurd that she'd waited this long already.

Rosalie pursed her lips. "Looks aren't important."

Bella's chuckle unfolded into outright laughter at her friend's declarative statement that was completed with a nod of self-affirmation.

"What are you laughing at?" The blonde threw her hands up in mock exasperation, fighting her own mirth. "You're the one always on that kick about how 'one shouldn't be praised or insulted on a simple accident of genetics', and all that philosophical stuff. And you're right, of course."

Bella just grinned. "And obviously you believe it wholeheartedly."

"Obviously," Rosalie concurred, crossing her arms over her chest. She looked like a petulant child.

"I also said that self-respect is an admirable virtue, so there's nothing wrong with appreciating the aesthetics of those that clearly take good care of themselves," Bella continued in a sing-song tone, before continuing firmly. "However, there's a line between those that do it for shallow reasons like just getting laid, and those that do it for the enrichment of their own quality of life by maintaining a—"

"Alright! Christ! I'm going already!" Rosalie pushed herself up from the table, still fighting off the urge to laugh.

The brunette just snickered, taking a sip of the thick slop the locals knew as beer as she followed her friend with watchful eyes.

The bartender's smile only widened as Rosalie approached, dimples absurdly adorable and disarming, and Bella acquiesced that she could understand the appeal. He had a friendly warmth in his expression and, though that by no means meant he was harmless, it was infectious. She was smiling, too, hoping Rosalie wouldn't be disappointed with this new find. What were the chances for finding a guy with dimples and standards?

Bella let her eyes wander over the crowd, feeling a little silly. Here she was fretting over Rosalie finding a good catch, when Bella herself had yet to find anyone remotely promising since she'd arrived in London five months ago. Or in the preceding twenty-five years, she conceded as long as she was feeling masochistic. She'd had her share of relationships and experiences, but like most things, nothing lasted long.

Most of them thought she was an intellectual snob. Bella wasn't affronted. She simply had standards and boundaries that most people failed to build for themselves throughout their dysfunctional childhoods. This made her mostly incompatible with the majority of the world's population. She'd had her own set of passive-aggressive parents, as most did, but she'd been fortunate enough to encounter a handful of enlightened souls in her time, mentors and educators that had opened her eyes to her own self-destructive tendencies.

And she'd never even gone to college.

Soft, rich notes of a piano being played broke her from her reverie and Bella idly acknowledged that the background music had been turned off at some point. Her gaze slid to the stage, her head titling thoughtfully as she observed the scene before her.

Through thick clouds of blue-tinged smoke, a man sat at the brown piano, his head bowed, relatively short hair falling against his brow as he caressed the keys that forged the song's intro. She took a leisurely moment to contemplate the peculiar color of the man's hair. Red and dark gold, meshed into a slovenly assemblage of thick locks, darker than a freshly minted penny, but somewhere along the same thread of hue.

"Huh," Bella mused aloud. She absently wondered if it was natural.

Her gaze wandered again as the delicate, rhythmic notes continued, and settled on Rosalie. She sat at the bar, lips upturned in a genuine smile, glancing every so often to the stage, then back to the bartender. He leaned on his forearms over the bar, intent on whatever conversation he was having with her, occasionally nodding his head toward the stage.

She seemed safe and comfortable enough, Bella figured, quickly dismissing the thought of striding casually up to the bar to eavesdrop in case Rosalie needed an out. Of course, it would also serve to get herself a new drink, since this muddy concoction wasn't doing her taste buds any favors.

She narrowed her eyes in internal debate.

Then a voice like woven silk, smooth then pleasurably rough in varying strokes, disrupted her focus. The man at the piano was singing, a low tenor, she noted, rich and golden in its tessitura, and flavored with the British accent that was native to the eastern districts of the city.

Tiny bumps washed over her skin in a rapid, warm wave, and Bella blinked in surprise. The pub's patrons were mostly quiet now, and heads were uniformly pointed toward the tiny corner of the room, some gently nodding in time with the hypnotic rhythm of the song.

He had a voice that rivaled a siren's, persuasive and warm as wool. His voice transitioned smoothly to and from an unabashed falsetto at points, and Bella found herself wondering if this man was an accomplished musician that she'd failed to recognize, performing charitably for the less wealthy side of town. His face certainly fit the caliber of celebrity status, angular and finely chiseled, though his eyes remained lowered—closed, she wondered?—throughout the majority of the performance. Only a few times did he look up to the crowd, but she was too far away to distinguish the color of his eyes, though the light that glistened from them revealed them to be light in hue.

Quickly, Bella tore her eyes away to see the equal astonishment and appraisal on Rosalie's face as she watched the musician. The dimpled bartender smirked as he glanced over, as well, his attention divided as he prepared a drink for a waiting customer.

She brought her eyes back to the stage in time to witness the end of the song, and found herself instantly disappointed that she couldn't see his hands from this angle as the notes slowed. Hands. A guilty pleasure that she'd retained before she realized how little appearances really matter. The sight of skilled, long, tapered fingers on a man did delightful things to her insides, in spite of her better judgment. Such habits never won, of course, no matter how much she indulged in her fantasies about a nice set of hands.

The crowd erupted in earnest applause, and the musician offered a reciprocal smile.

"Thank you," he said with a gracious nod, his British speaking voice just as enchanting as his singing.

The cheers hadn't died down before the next song began, and Bella was instantly engaged in another irrational dilemma. Now she wanted to join Rosalie at the bar just for the chance to see if her angle offered a better view of the piano man's hands.

_Ridiculous_, she chided herself, standing and striding toward the bar. Internal monologue—failed.

Dropping Rosalie's red purse and the courier bag she'd dragged along with her onto a bar stool, Bella slid into the seat beside her friend, her dimpled new obsession distracted with his other obligations at the other side of the bar for the moment.

Rosalie smiled at her in acknowledgement and nodded toward the stage. "He's good, isn't he?"

Bella just nodded, pursing her lips in resignation at the view this vantage point offered, and sighed. Of course he had immaculate hands. Long, graceful, assured fingers that effortlessly coaxed one delicate note after another and melded them into divine consonance.

Then the voice of woven silk joined in accompaniment, and Bella was opening and closing her mouth, unsure of what to say in her awe.

She settled with, "I've never wanted to be someone's uvula so bad in all my life."

The bartender laughed, and Bella glanced up in surprise to find him standing beside her.

Rosalie chuckled. "Bella, this is Emmett. Emmett, this is Isabella. That—" she paused to nod toward the stage again "—is Emmett's brother."

Bella could feel herself blanch, just a moment before heat crept up her skin and rushed to her head. "Ah, hi, Emmett. That probably sounded... unclassy."

Emmett grinned, the expression reaching his eyes warmly. "He'd be very flattered. It's nice to meet you. We don't get many Americans in here."

Bella lifted her dark eyebrows, half-stunned to hear that the place wasn't crawling with tourists to hear the local talent, and half-shocked that he had a voice almost as pleasant as his brother's. "Does he not play often?"

Emmett smiled again at the compliment on his brother's behalf, and winked conspiratorially. "He plays every Friday, and whenever I have an empty night to fill, like tonight. The block's best-kept secret, since he's a stubborn bastard and doesn't care to advertise much. He brings in a good chunk of my business on Fridays, though."

"Emmett owns this place," Rosalie chimed in, an admiring smile playing on her glossy lips as she settled her eyes on the bartender's smiling face.

"I like it," Bella smiled, "We'll have to come visit more."

"Thank you," Emmett replied sincerely, "I'd like that." And then his attention was lost on her to the blonde she sat beside.

Of course, the offer to visit more was for Rosalie's benefit—or so she told herself—but there was nothing indecent about enjoying the talent. As long as she didn't let her eyes wander back to the musician's hands and imagine the indecent things they were undoubtedly capable of.

With a flinch, Bella tore her eyes off of the hands she'd caught herself staring at, and opted instead for his lips as he sang.

Immediately, she realized that was a bad idea. From here, she could make out the gentle lines in the pink flesh of his lips, and the way they brushed against the microphone briefly with every few words, the vestibule that molded his golden-wrapped lyrics.

Bella suddenly realized how unbearably hot the room was.

Emmett seemed to notice, and his amused voice offered a moment of reprieve. "Can I get you something to drink, duck? You look a bit... troubled."

Bella's eyes fluttered a few times as she attempted to comprehend the words he'd spoken. "Oh! Yes. Something... cold." Then she paused. Getting drunk could mean ugly repercussions should she continue to visually assault the unsuspecting piano man. He was probably just another arrogant type, anyway—she'd known her share of musicians. "And non-alcoholic."

And her attention was lost again, hopelessly enthralled in the velvet voice.

* * *

Thirty minutes, six songs, and two glasses of plain tonic water later, the musician offered a gentle thanks and goodnight to the small crowd, much to Bella's relief—and disappointment.

Rosalie and Emmett were in a world of their own, focused intently on each other when he wasn't succumbing to the requests of his customers, and Bella found herself liking him already. His comments and inquiries of Rosalie seemed earnest and curious, and he didn't appear to grovel and drool like a fanboy over Rosalie's good looks.

Beyond that, Bella didn't pay as much attention as she intended to, her attention tethered to the piano man until he rose from his bench with a smile as impeccable as his brother's, and then made his way through the praising patrons toward the bar.

Bella shook herself, hoping she didn't appear as dumbstruck as she felt, instantly realizing that he was going to approach them since his brother hadn't left Rosalie for more than a few minutes at a time.

Emmett acknowledged his copper-haired brother as he slid into the seat beside Bella with a nod and a cold bottle of beer.

He accepted it gratefully. "Emmett," he greeted in his delicious voice. "Going to introduce me to your new birds?"

His smile was laced in humor, slightly asymmetrical, and every bit as disarming as his dimpled brother's. Bella couldn't resist a smile of her own and turned back toward her water glass.

"This is Rosalie," Emmett stated, nodding toward Rosalie, then Bella. "And Isabella. Ladies, this is my brother, Edward."

Edward. Bella lips curled up into a smirk. A classic name to fit such a timeless voice.

She looked up at him to smile in greeting, seeing for the first time that his eyes were as green as absinthe. And they were fixed on her. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Rosalie and Isabella."

"You can call me Bella," she added kindly.

"You're American," he said thoughtfully, lifting his bronze eyebrows. "Welcome to Merry Ol' London."

"Thank you," Rosalie replied. "We were admiring your music. Your voice is fantastic."

His smile could have melted a glacier. "Thank you very much. I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"I even overheard someone say they wanted to be your uvula," Emmett offered, flicking Bella a devilish glance.

Bella groaned, then chuckled before Edward could respond. If anyone was going to laugh at her, she'd be the first to volunteer. "Ah, yeah. Guilty."

Edward blinked in surprise, laughter then erupting from his throat. "Really? Well, I can't say I hear that often. I'm overwhelmed."

"What did I tell ya?" Emmett winked at her.

Bella unglued her gaze from the piercing green eyes that bore into her with wicked amusement, and bit her lip to keep from saying something else absurd. Slowly, she took a deliberate drink from her glass of tonic water in hopes of keeping her mouth occupied as long as she could.

She realized what this was, and felt a brief pang of sympathy for Emmett. She wasn't an easy person to set up by any means, but she took his effort as a compliment. He didn't know better, and probably felt bad for her predicament as the third wheel.

"So what brings you to London?" Edward asked politely, his eyes darting once to Rosalie, then back to Bella. "I'd suspect holiday, but we don't get many tourists this way."

"Bella's working in London," Rosalie volunteered. "I didn't want her to come alone."

"Oh, I see," Edward replied with interest. "What kind of work is it you do that would drag you all the way from the states?"

"Catering to the whims of a helpless, hopeless overgrown child," Bella sighed, dejection inherent in her tone every time the subject arose. She'd suddenly remembered all of the press packets she still had left on her desk at home to complete. Her voice drolled on warily. "P.R., laundry, grocery shopping, shoe-tying..."

"Funny," Edward tilted his head, "I didn't notice a rock on your finger."

A snicker escaped Bella's lips, the sound devoid of humor. "Nope, nope. All the slavery, none of the physical obligations, thankfully. But the money's not bad. And for the record, wedding rings are a silly pagan tradition that I have absolutely no vested interest in upholding, anyway, even if I were married."

Edward couldn't fight the grin that crossed his faced. "And every bit as bitter, I see."

"Oh dear," Rosalie half-groaned. "Here it comes."

"Now why would you make that assumption?" Bella asked Edward, fighting to keep the challenge out of her tone. Humor returned to her lips, however. "I simply don't care to adhere to absurd practices that have absolutely no logical or rational merit behind them. Besides, the value of diamonds is grossly overinflated due to artificial demand, and greatly through violent cartel practices, I might add. Look at the De Beers monopoly, for crying out loud."

With a slow movement, Edward lapsed into stunned silence for a moment, and lifted the beer bottle to his lips. This woman was either incredibly intelligent or she was just well-rehearsed at rattling off trendy topic from the local coffeehouses. Not that he'd heard much talk of the De Beers debacle for the last few years.

"Well, that's not entirely the case anymore with De Beers finally dropping its market share by half," he finally supplied.

Bella took a moment to regard him, a dark eyebrow arching pleased reverence. It wasn't the first time someone had engaged in this debate with her, but his interest appeared to be piqued and respectful, rather than defensive. Not to mention the pride she was forced to swallow by acknowledging that she'd shallowly made an incorrect assumption of him. Not every pretty musician was empty between the ears, she reminded herself.

Rosalie just chuckled from the other side of her, resuming her chattering with Emmett.

"Would it be discourteous of me to say that I sense a bit of a grudge toward romance, however?" Edward asked with that disarming smile. Innocent and honest.

"I... have no such grudge against love," Bella replied, choosing her words with great care. "But I find some standards of romantic practice... very impractical, unfounded, and obligatory. It seems routine, autonomous. Not questioned, if that makes sense? How many people bother looking into the history of the exchange of wedding rings, for example? I prefer actions that come from a more sincere place."

She let her eyes drop from his as she took another sip from her glass.

Edward again made no effort to hide his amusement, the expression overshadowing undeniable awe. He idly wondered if this philosophy of logical analysis applied to every aspect of her life outside of just romance, or if she was as contradictory as most women he'd encountered in his twenty-seven years. Too good to be true, perhaps, as was usually the case. He wondered if she'd scold him should he ever give her a flower. He almost laughed at the imagined scenario, and considered trying it.

Bella was fighting the urge to shift in her seat, wondering if she was shoving her foot in the mouth by being so blatantly opinionated in her first few minutes talking to this stranger. Honesty was a policy, of course, but tact and methodology were priceless values, as well. This was at least third date material.

_Date?_

"Bella, your phone is ringing," Rosalie sighed with annoyance on her friend's behalf.

Quickly, Bella snatched her bag and fumbled around for the BlackBerry, frantically tearing it out before voicemail could pick up.

"Hello?" she panted.

Edward watched in bewilderment, resisting the desire to chuckle at the young woman's panic to answer the phone. He casually took a pull from the bottle, not bothering to conceal the fact that he was listening in. It was late, and he could only assume the caller was either back in America and unaware of the time, or it was an important call. Significant other, perhaps? The overgrown child for a boss she'd mentioned? Her reaction was amusing, either way.

As her brow furrowed, so did Edward's. She must not have liked the other end of the conversation.

"Laurent, just..." she cringed at the volume on the other end, "No, just check the drawer next to your bed. If there aren't then...." She broke off, her eyes widening in horror. "You can't be serious."

The call ended, apparently, as she was now staring at her phone with the same expression of utter abhorrence plastered on her pale face.

"What's wrong?" Rosalie sneered, her lips twisting in disapproval. "Can't find his socks again?"

Bella snapped her mouth shut upon realizing it was hanging open, and drew in a breath. This could be dignified, couldn't it?

"If you'll excuse me," she mustered, her chin tilted the slightest bit upward in a show of confidence as she slid off the barstool. "I have to locate... condoms in the middle of the night, in downtown London."

"Bella!" Rosalie exclaimed. "You've gotta be fuckin' kidding me!"

Emmett and Edward gaped for a moment before laughter finally won over.

"You're sure the money is that good?" Edward couldn't resist.

Bella swallowed, and forced a smile. "No, no. I'm suddenly and frighteningly aware that my last shreds of integrity have detached themselves from my psyche and scurried away. Have a good night, kids. It was nice to meet you, Emmett." She gave him a nod before fixing her eyes on the enchanting piano man with absinthe eyes. "Edward."

His mouth reacted without consulting his brain first. "Wait, let me come with you. This probably isn't the best time to walk around these parts alone. I can help."

Bella only hesitated a moment. "Gladly. Condom shopping warrants companionship, I suppose. Come on, then."

And that was how it all started.

* * *

**Hello, everyone! This story is something of an open-ended trial... I'm not positive where it's going outside of a few vague ideas, but hey... it's just for fun. I'm always open to considering feedback and ideas. **

**I've written many a story before elsewhere, but I'll admit this is my first time attempting Twilight fiction. I had no intention, but these little images and scene ideas kept disrupting my thoughts, so I figured I'd do it for the hell of it.**

**It's all human in this case, clearly, and alternate universe. Hard to imagine Emmett with a British accent, eh? Just go with it.**

**Since this is , I don't really find it necessary to post disclaimers, so I'll say it once. I'm not making a penny on this crap, and Stephenie Meyer owns the characters. **


	2. Nighttime Occupations

**2. Nighttime Occupations**

"Ribbed for her pleasure?"

"....What?"

"Ribbed for her pleasure?" Edward repeated, about twenty decibels louder than necessary, jade eyes gleaming.

Bella's eyes widened and her jaw tightened, torn between laughing and ducking her head in shame. She tucked her lips into a tight line, trying to focus on the gaudy display of gratuitous condom variety this poor excuse for a pharmacy had to offer. She spoke with controlled calm. "I don't think that will be necessary. Thank you for the consideration."

Edward shrugged. "Alright. What will it be, then? Condom choice says a lot about a man, you know. What did you say his name was?"

"Laurent," Bella replied in the same tight voice. This was unbearable.

Those long, tapered fingers paused in mid-reach toward a box of Magnums. "He's French?"

"Mmhm," was all she could manage.

His hand dropped and he crouched to begin a more thorough search. "I don't think they carry extra small here. We might have to scavenge a specialty shop."

Bella's composure was lost, defeated by a fit of astonished laughter. "Edward!"

He just grinned and straightened. "Can't resist an opportunity to live up to the stereotype to impress the expectant American, yeah?"

Beet red in embarrassment, exacerbated by involuntary surges of laughter, Bella just shook her head and yanked the first box within reach from its hook. "Off we go."

"Are you embarrassed, Isabella?" The humor in his tone made her want to smack him with the box of spermicidal ultra-thins she held clutched in her hand.

"About buying condoms, no. About buying them for my boss... yes. _Emphatically_." And having to do so in front of this strange, alluring man whose existence she'd been oblivious of until he'd sung before her not even an hour ago, no less – very definitely. She resisted the urge to hiss obscenities under her breath as she walked to the counter with as much dignity as she could muster under the circumstances.

"What is it he does, anyway?" Edward asked as he followed, eyes wandering aimlessly over the dingy aisles in the seedy establishment.

"He's an artist. A sculptor." A man-whore. Oh, how she hated her boss right then.

Edward just replied with a disinterested "Hm."

They approached the counter, and Bella placed the box on the surface, forcing a confident smile on her face. "Good evening."

The clerk was, of course, barely more than a teenager, his attention perking up as he picked up the box of condoms. His eyes darted impishly between Edward and Bella. "I'm sure it will be for you."

Bella swallowed, painfully aware of what this looked like. She gestured between herself and Edward with a hand. "We're not—"

"Of course we are!" Edward interjected, his face the perfect picture of indignation. Then he smiled coyly. "Don't be shy, darling. It's completely natural. And what better way than... responsibly?"

The clerk just snickered and rang up the purchase. Bella swallowed again, torn between outrage and embarrassment, but admittedly—and grudgingly—distracted by the torrid images conjured at the suggestion. A shiver rippled through her nervous system in all the nicest places. Then she mentally chided herself for entertaining the notion.

Once the transaction was complete and the item was bagged, she tore out of the store.

Edward followed with a lazy grin. "Was it something I said?"

She opened her mouth, weighing her options. He meant to get a rise from her, and if she ripped into him now, he'd get exactly what he wanted from her. She sighed. "You coming or not?"

"How could I resist an invitation like that?" he answered cheekily, striding to her side. "Shall we, darling?"

"Who are you?" she muttered aloud, shaking her head as they walked.

"I'm Edward, of course. Was the experience so traumatic you've forgotten? I've been told my sense of humor leaves an impression, but this..."

She smirked in spite of herself. "I mean why are you walking me all over London? Shouldn't you be... what do you Englishmen call it... frolicking about with your drooling groupies back at the bar?"

Edward laughed loudly, his gilded tenor resonating like her favorite wooden wind chimes. "_Frolicking about_... yes. I suppose that's what you expected, yeah?"

"Actually... no," she replied, eyes ahead of the dark and nearly desolate street ahead of them. "Well, alright, at first, I did. That was before I spoke to you, however. Though it's probably stupid of me to make an assumption like that after knowing you all of an hour."

He shrugged beside her, glancing between the stretch of sidewalk before them, and the lovely brunette philosopher at his side. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I get that a lot. Stigma of the musician, I suppose. Not that I'm saintly by any means. Just not the cad you were expecting, surely."

"How long have you played?" she asked, tilting her head up to look at him. Only then did she really notice how tall he was. Over six feet in height, easy. The black t-shirt, slender gray pea coat, and well-fitting jeans in a dark wash were doing nothing to impair the visage of his tall figure, either. She momentarily wondered if he'd appear even taller without clothes. Then she mentally smacked herself.

"Since I was a child," he said. He smiled down at her, taking a beat to appraise the sincerity in her warm eyes. Lucid, inquisitive, and almost mahogany in color. "I was classically trained from the time I was able to sit upright on a piano bench. My mum and dad evidently thought producing a child prodigy would look good in their social circles."

The cutting and unexpected honesty in his words wasn't missed by either of them, and Bella tilted her head when his gaze flicked from hers and onto the pavement. There was a bite to his tone, hinting at a much more elaborate story, but she didn't think it appropriate to press him on the matter since she barely knew the man.

His smile wavered a fraction but remained, eyes trained on her reaction.

"And singing?" she asked to diffuse the tension. "Was your voice trained as well?"

He shook his head. "No. I started writing my own songs when I was about thirteen, and... no one was there to sing them but me."

Her eyebrows drew together for a moment as she considered his words, again wondering what might have been meant by that, but gave him a smile in response. "Well, I think it's lovely."

"Thanks," he said, his gratitude audibly sincere. The humor surfaced in his expression again. "What about you? Your speaking voice is delectable. Chrissy Hynde would be envious, as contraltos go. Do you sing?"

Bella laughed. "Me? No. Well, I played around when I was younger, but... I'm so musically _dis_inclined it's a little sad."

"Rubbish," he argued. "I'm sure you just need a little practice. It's easy."

She just rolled her eyes. "Not quite, but thanks. Anyway, it's not so bad. My telephone voice, as Laurent calls it, is what got me my job."

"Oh? And what kinds of sinister things does he have you doing on the telephone with a voice like that?" He grinned at her, vaguely cognizant of the fact that he had no idea where they were going, and hoping that she was at least aware of their direction.

"My day job is perfectly immaculate and pure, thank you. Get your mind out of the gutter." She made a show of tucking the bag of condoms into her courier bag with mock stealth. Then she casually spoke again. "Phone sex, however, is my _night_ job."

A wicked smile and a glint of amusement in her reflective eyes greeted him as he peered down at her, and he experienced a moment of inexplicable vertigo.

Breaking their locked gaze quickly, he looked at his wrist, to the watch that wasn't there. "You're quite tardy then, aren't you? Or is this a job you perform anywhere?" He had half a mind to demand a demonstration.

"Oh, I'm an anywhere, anytime kinda girl," she grinned, hoping to mask the chagrin at her own words. Untrue as they were, they slipped out before she'd realized just how easy she'd proclaimed herself.

"Really..." The word drifted off of his lips slowly, curled and diabolical by the smile that ghosted across his expression.

"So, what about you? Got a day job when you're not being a frolicking musician?" Her grin reached her eyes and Edward felt as though a blanket had been wrapped around him, protecting him from the cold he hadn't realized he'd been shrouded in.

"I am..." he began, taking careful deliberation with his words, wondering how this would be received by someone like her, "...a tattoo artist."

Her head tilted, and she worked to keep the surprise off of her face, unsure whether or not she was successful. Her brown eyes dropped to his torso, wondering if he'd be covered in ink underneath his clothes.

He noticed her straying eyes and smirked.

The tiny movement of his lips drew her attention again and she cleared her throat. _Dignity, Bella._ "Do you... have any tattoos?"

Her lips twisted in a moment of instant chagrin. That would only verify exactly what she'd been doing with her eyes.

His smirk melted nicely into an asymmetrical smile. "I do."

"Can I see?" Ah, well. If she was going to make an ass of herself, she might as well indulge a little.

"Perhaps one day I'll show you." His voice had dropped slightly, and he made no effort to censor the sinister glimmer in the gentle lift of his eyebrow. He didn't have many; he wondered idly if that would be disappointing or relieving in her eyes. It was startling to discover how much her reaction suddenly mattered to him.

Bella just nodded and chuckled, then attempted to steer the conversation to a more safe topic. "Tell me about the more interesting parts of London."

Their conversation continued in a steady exchange, questions light and curious. The tension seemed obvious to both of them, and beneath the friendly banter, they marveled at the unlikeliness of the situation, demonstrable in the constant flicker of words back and forth. There was traces of wonderment in their tones at the inexplicable urgency to propel the conversation, in spite of the innocent inquiries; favorite music, favorite literature, places traveled, and those they desired to see in their lifetimes.

It wasn't until a while later, Bella not having noticed the time as they strolled through the streets, that they arrived at their destination. She begged Edward to stay outside while she ran the bag up to her boss, despite his insistence to witness the exchange for himself. She won out in the end, to his disappointment.

Laurent was, to say the least, annoyed that she'd taken so long with the delivery, but had apparently found a stash to tide him over for most of the night.

When she returned to the front of the building, they shared a silent gaze for a moment. The errand was complete, and they'd reached the point where they would part ways.

"So..." Bella finally broke the silence, "...thanks for escorting me to shop for condoms."

Edward grinned. "My pleasure, of course. Do you live far?"

She hesitated a moment, wondering if he intended to invite himself to join her. "Uh... just a few blocks that way." She pointed with a finger.

He picked up on the vague response and was immediately chagrined when he realized how his words could have been construed. _Not that I'd complain_, he mused internally before he squelched the thought.

"I didn't mean that nearly as forward as it sounded," he replied with a rueful laugh. "I just want to make sure you get home in one piece. May I walk you?"

Sense told her to say no, but on the other hand, she couldn't deny that, in spite of his striking appearance—pretty men usually meant trouble—she'd been enjoying his company.

Sense be damned.

"Sure."

He smiled and held his arm out, which she linked in hers.

After another half hour, they'd finally made it onto her block, and Edward took it upon himself to disengage from their conversation when he noticed where they were.

"You have a flat in Westminster?" he asked in astonishment. He wasn't so surprised about her boss having a flat in the area, but this wasn't what he expected from this strange and rational creature.

She groaned in response. "The boss' insistence. And Rosalie's influence."

He chuckled. "Doesn't quite seem to suit you."

Bella smirked. "You have no idea. I'm used to pick up trucks and log cabins. This is, er... over the top."

"Ah, yes. Your small, rainy hometown in... Forks, was it?"

She nodded, digging through her courier bag to fish out her key ring. "Yeah, good old Forks. But I got a little more accustomed to city life after I moved to Los Angeles."

"Where you met Laurent," he clarified, not really asking.

"Right." She confirmed, triumphantly jerking her keys from the bag. She paused and looked at Edward, who was staring intently at her in return. Concern etched into her brow. "How far do you have to go?"

"My brother's pub. I live upstairs."

"Oh," she said in surprise. Then remorse. "_Oh_. That's far. Rose and I took a taxi, I didn't even think about how far we'd been walking..." She seized her BlackBerry from her bag and her eyes widened at the time. "It's almost five a.m.!"

He smiled that smile that could melt the pants off of just about anything with legs. Except her, of course. "Sounds about right. I hope you aren't in too much trouble, but I'm glad I could see you home safely."

"Could I call you a cab?" She bit her lip. Now she felt like a jerk. She wondered why Rosalie hadn't called her, but then it occurred to her that she might have gone home with Emmett. That meant the apartment was empty.

"Not necessary, love. However, you could repay me by coming to the pub on Friday?" His teeth gleamed from the soft glow of the street lamps, his smile mischievous.

Sense was skittering away in steady increments, and old, bad habits that she'd worked hard to evict came flaring up in its place. None of that had to mean she'd do something she'd regret, though. It could be innocent, couldn't it?

"I can do that. But why don't you come upstairs for now?" The words were out of her mouth before she could bite them back, and she felt a twinge of unexpected thrill course up her spine. Of course, she worried that he'd take it completely out of context. _Would that be so bad, Bella?_

He hesitated merely a moment. They were both aware of what had the potential to happen with such an invitation, and he couldn't deny the temptation to succumb to his more basic testosterone-driven instincts. However, there was something equally enticing about this opportunity, and he felt his expression melt into one of introspection as he contemplated his desire to simply speak with her more, encased in an environment where she would likely be more comfortable. He wanted to understand this woman better, undeniably intrigued by the array of startlingly honest responses and questions she'd offered all night.

"I'd love to." He fought to keep his face polite. It was dangerous territory to enter, and he knew he'd have to tread carefully to keep the tension from escalating. He suddenly doubted he had the means necessary for such a feat. "However, I really should get home. Will you come on Friday, really?"

Bella's lips curved in a smile, and she nodded her head. She wasn't surprised that he'd declined, and a wash of disappointment and subsequent relief passed through her. "I'll be there. Thanks again."

"It was my pleasure," he reiterated. He kept his eyes on hers, striving to convey that he'd wanted, _badly_, to accept her invitation. Probably for all the wrong reasons. "I'll see you there."

With that, he offered her a glowing smile, and she had to steady herself against the wall with a hand to keep from quivering unceremoniously to the ground. "Good night, Edward."

"Good... day, Isabella," he replied with a wink. Then he walked away, and her eyes followed until he was gone, just a distant blur against the dark gray backdrop of a London dawn.

* * *

**Big fat thanks go to my fantastic beta, TwilightMomofTwo. If you haven't read her stuff, get on that immediately. I swear you won't find better canon Edward POV work than hers. **

**Thank you, also, to those that reviewed and faved. **

**Something I thought worth mentioning: Though we mostly all picture Rob Pattinson as Edward, and we've heard his lovely singing voice... I did tweak my version of Edward's voice (he's roughly a low tenor--still got a sexy voice, ladies and gents, don't fear--as opposed to the baritone that Rob sounds to be)... I imagined this character to be along the likes of a Thom Yorke/Chris Martin/Rufus Wainwright kind of vocalist, since this story idea wasn't originally intended to be a Twilight fic. Thought I'd share that bit of trivia.**


	3. Something Completely Different

**3. Something Completely Different**

The concrete was cold. It always was. Edward, briefly giving into the indulgence of the makings of a fruitless tradition, wondered why he'd expected any different this time.

The moment he'd gotten his boots and socks off, he'd let out a hiss as his bare feet touched the floor. The expression offered no additional warmth, but gave him a moment of psychosomatic relief, the same as every time he entered his flat.

The routine continued, on toward the record player against the far wall of the parlor that sat silently, waiting in endless patience to be loved and manipulated. His feet shuffled against the treated concrete floor, taking unhurried, content steps as he became acclimated to the temperature of the place.

It appeared that nothing on the surface had changed. The sparse furniture was exactly as he'd left it; the small kitchen to the right desolate, the only signs of use revealed in the remains of stale coffee at the bottom of a pot brewed hours ago. The parlor, despite its icy concrete floor, was as inviting as always. The charcoal gray sofa under the large window was worn and draped in a plaid blanket from the last time he'd fallen asleep there, over which he now tossed his pea coat.

The telly was off, the black screen coated in a respectable layer of dust and nesting comfortably in its wooden frame against the wall that separated this room from the kitchen. The brown upright piano beside it remained open, its keys perhaps the only thing in the room to be free of dust, pages of hastily scrawled sheet music splattered across every surface, in an order that only he could conceivably decipher.

He knew if he passed through and entered the bedroom that it would be just as it had looked when he'd gotten up, sheets and pillows strewn in disorder and lovingly lived in, probably surrounded by haphazardly discarded shoes and t-shirts dotting the floor.

Not a thing was out of place, though he never rationally expected otherwise. It instantly felt as though he'd been made privy to a great secret the rest of the world had yet to learn, and he felt childishly giddy in this knowledge. Everything _felt_ different.

Thin beams of morning sun were beginning to seep through the window, defying the gray blanket that covered the sky to cast golden lines across Edward's floor and illuminate dust particles, as they gently wafted through the air. He could almost taste the gentle rays as he passed through them to sink onto the floor before his turntable—warm and savory flavors.

Nimble fingers flipped through the milk crate of his favorite vinyls, in search of something that suited his mood. He wouldn't go with the usual post-gig choice, the delicate and mellow notes of Chopin or Debussy, for he had no desire to give into tranquility. Tonight—rather, this morning—he didn't wish to sleep. His body, tired though it was after trekking through London until the first signs of dawn, was experiencing something entirely too new. To sleep through it seemed blasphemous and wasteful.

Whatever this was that soaked through to his bones and left him feeling blissfully delirious, Edward wanted to latch on and milk it for all it was worth. It called for a more appropriate soundtrack. Finally, something struck the right chord with him, and he smirked. Bob Dylan, one of his more playful, but unfailingly soulful albums—this was acceptable.

The needle was lowered, the silence was broken, and Edward was making his way to the center of the room, onto the black oval rug. He sat, drawing his knees up, elbows resting atop them with his back leaning against the sofa.

Behind closed lids, a warm smile and intense, searching mahogany eyes greeted him, and he offered a smile in return. There was only so much that could be learned about a person in a few hours, but Edward had discovered enough during the brief time they'd spent together to realize that the first threads of a burgeoning hope had begun to weave themselves together in an invisible line between himself and the girl who called herself Bella.

Those proverbial doors for such an opportunity had been closed a long time ago in his self-imposed solitude, and, though he kept up what would be considered healthy interaction with the general public, he'd accepted that most people in the world were as fooled as he'd been about what life and love was all about, what was good and what was true, all the way from the first moments of life. The world was filled with deceit and pleasant pretenses, aggression and manipulation, and Edward had already had his fill of each one. Now he simply kept to himself on an intellectual level to soften the inevitable disappointment that accompanied each new face he met.

He'd known that there was an exception to every rule, but the more time that passed, the less hopeful he'd been that perhaps he'd encounter an enlightened soul, and the nearer those doors came to closing until they were all but painted shut. There were only a handful that knew their way in, but even those few relationships weren't without their share of difficulties; his siblings had been through it the same as he had. The world suffered from a mass case of Stockholm Syndrome, and his family had been no different.

Edward parted his lips and drew in a slow breath, noticing that his smile was still in place, and he released a self-deprecating chuckle. It was silly to assume that this girl was that one exception already, but he couldn't deny the surprise he'd felt at her honest words and heartfelt curiosity every time she'd asked a question. He would have given truthful answers to anyone, probably, as he loathed dishonesty with a fierce passion and had no qualms with bluntness no matter whom he might offend, but for once he'd felt an alien sense of elation as he'd replied to every one of her inquiries. She'd wanted to know, so much that she'd fired question after question at him, her intrigue unwavering, and her answers just as uninhibited as he'd returned her questions.

Sweet Christ, could there be such promise for something beyond the superficial? He knew, of course, that getting attached quickly could be a disaster waiting to happen, for a number of reasons. He could be projecting something on this girl that wasn't there out of a withering shred of hope, or he could push it too hard, too fast, and bugger up he whole thing. He knew, above everything, his first focus should be simply to establish a friendship with her, some solid ground from which to test the waters.

There were many more questions, much more history to be learned by the two of them, and he was determined to uncover as much as he could until he knew one way or another if this girl really was the exception.

Deeply ingrained skepticism told him he was being ridiculous; there was just no way that this girl would be different from any other. Experience had proved that again and again. Part of him resisted to accept it, however. What girl had he met in his whole life that had no interest in diamonds and illogical romantic traditions, based on well-thought out reasoning? It wasn't a quirk, that type of statement that one made for the sake of appearing different or low-maintenance, a carefully crafted show of 'individuality', and then subsequently couldn't give a rational explanation for the opinion when questioned. Those were usually nothing more than the latest rebellious trends in arguments that simply came down to protesting for the sake of protesting. No one knew why they stood for what they stood for anymore.

But Bella... her answers came with a kind of curious conviction; certain in her path until hard evidence pointed her in a better direction. There was no real dogma there, just a desire to understand and make the most of what she was dealt. She was beautiful for that reason alone.

And he'd never even learned her last name.

Edward laughed aloud, sweeping a hand through his unruly hair, and leaning his head back against the couch cushions. The grin still on his face, completely out of context with the song's nature, he sang along with Bob Dylan, sounding more like a gleeful drunk than a practiced musician.

"The times, they are a-changin'."

* * *

Today, a Thursday like any other Thursday in May, Bella Swan would shatter into a heap on the floor, ungraceful, irritable, and jonesing for a cigarette.

It was inevitable.

Any minute now.

Most days, she had willpower to rival the strength of an angry bull, but this was proving quickly to not be one of those days, and she hadn't had even a drag in three years. Her muscles were drawn tightly, her lungs aching for just a wisp of nicotine, and her mind racing through task after mundane task. She was ready to punch someone in the mouth and stamp on their toes, then raid their personal effects for a Camel, a Newport, hell, she'd even take a Marlboro—the scourge of all cigarettes in her experience—at this point. _Everyone_ was going down.

Even this guy.

"Mr. Lindquist, hello and welcome," she cooed with a smile to the older, silver-haired gentleman as he strode into the gallery, "Laurent should be arriving shortly. Please, help yourself to some champagne. We're almost ready."

"Wonderful, Miss Swan," he replied brightly in his crisp Brit voice, his twinkling ice blue eyes giving her a swift once-over. "You look lovely this afternoon."

Bella just continued smiling.

One he'd walked past her, she worked to pry the smile off her face and seethed in her impromptu nicotine withdrawal for another good minute. Finally, she cleared her throat, straightened her posture, and very nearly stomped across the gallery's main room in her three and a half inch heels. Though clumsy she once was, she'd improved tremendously when it came to stiletto heels and skin-tight pencil skirts, an unfortunate requirement of her occupation.

"The doors open officially in... twenty-two minutes," she began, checking her BlackBerry for the seventh time in six minutes, then brought her attention back to the black-clad man and woman before her. "Everything is ready to go, so just hang back until someone wants to make a bid..." She shook her head, taking in their bored expressions. "Yeah, you guys know this department better than I do. Anyway, if the spotlights in the west corner start flickering, _again_, I want you to notify me immediately, okay?"

The two nodded simultaneously, "Yes, ma'am."

She stared flatly. "Cut it out with the ma'am business tonight, huh? I've already got Lindquist over there feeling me up with his geriatric eyes, and I'm gonna have gray hairs before this night is over as it is." A shudder erupted before she could control it.

Angela and Ben snickered. "Relax, Bella, everything's taken care of," Ben assured her, fighting the urge to bust out laughing as he caught Mr. Lindquist gazing appreciatively at Bella's legs from behind her. He turned his eyes back to his co-worker and technical superior. "What's that old man here anyway? I thought he wasn't coming until next week."

"You know how art critics are," she said, not bothering to elaborate further as she flipped through her phone once more for any details she'd overlooked. They all knew the idiosyncrasies of the industry. "It's opening night, anyway. He wants to see if Laurent is as well received in his own country than back in L.A. He wants to prove Laurent isn't worth the hype."

"Pfft. Is he?" Angela muttered, then quickly covered her mouth and widened her eyes. She spoke against her hand, the sound muffled. "You heard nothing."

It was Bella's turn to snicker, then sigh ruefully with a shake of her head. "I wonder that same thing every minute of my career. Good luck, guys. Get me if you need anything. I'll be meandering somewhere by the bar in search of Drano."

"Relax, Bella," Ben said again, chuckling. "You did fine. Laurent's not gonna have a thing to complain about."

She smiled. "Thanks for coming, guys. I know the L.A. gallery has been crazy, so don't think I don't appreciate you coming all the way over to help—"

"Yeah, yeah," Angela said, cutting her off. She waved her hand dismissively. "Just make sure we get that big fat bonus the boss promised." Her grin was playful.

"Count on it," Bella promised with a wink, then pivoted on a the pointed toe of her shoe and made her way to the back of the gallery.

She took several deep breaths as she approached the office door, willing her nerves to calm themselves. She knocked sharply, twice. "Twenty minutes, boss."

A voice with a faded French flavor came through the door, muffled. "Ah, plenty of time for some fun, eh? What do you say, Belle?"

She promptly rolled her eyes. It never failed—his nickname for her, nor his general lack of regard for potential sexual harassment lawsuits. "I'll pass, thanks. Just get out here. Lindquist is early."

"_Merde_," he replied with a sigh. "I'm coming."

Bella just stood in place, doing another quick mental run-through of her checklist for this evening's tasks. She'd almost gone through it twice before by the time the door swung open, and the handsome, dark-complected artist stepped out in his sharp black suit.

"Where is that _enfoiré_?" he grumbled, then looked down at his assistant. His eyebrows lifted as he took in her high-waisted black pencil skirt and her crimson blouse. "You look delicious, Bella."

"Thanks," she replied with disinterest, then pushed her boss toward the main room of the gallery. "You know, Laurent, cursing is the lazy man's way—" She paused, suddenly remembering the first twenty times she'd tried this, and resigned that there was no use in wasting her breath. "He's still lingering by the entrance. And try _not_ to call him a fuckhead to his face, boss."

Laurent smirked. "You spoil all my fun. Very well. Go take a break and give that pretty ass a rest."

Bella just sighed, and pointed toward the front of the gallery. Once he waltzed away from her, she finally huffed into the office and sat down on the small beige loveseat, and let herself begin to relax.

All day she'd maintained the appearance of calm collectedness, despite how utterly out of control she felt. She supposed she should have been proud of such a feat, but the fact was that she'd been running these shows for the better part of three years, and, though they were unfailingly challenging, part of her thrived on the pressure.

Three years. Three entire years of stilettos and pencil skirts, day planners and Bic medium ball point pens—they had the most consistent ink flow and fit nicely in her office supply budget—press releases and bookkeeping, and a slough of off-color comments from her depraved boss.

She'd met Laurent in circumstances not unlike these; he'd hit on her at an art opening to which she'd accompanied Rosalie, she'd turned him down outright, and he'd offered her a job. What they said about desperate times proved to be more true than she'd been willing to consider.

When she'd come to L.A., she hadn't had a plan. She'd had a thousand dollars to her name and a beat up '53 Chevy pick up that was on its last legs from the trip down from Washington, and there wasn't a soul that knew her name for hundreds of miles. It was everything she'd wanted at first.

The lack of housing presented her first hiccup, however. The cost of living in the Los Angeles area was outrageous, and even worse further south into Orange County. She'd known it was high, but she hadn't anticipated just how high. Bella, however, was resourceful.

The local college campuses were her first stops, and the only ones necessary, ultimately. Flyers on bulletin boards for sub-lets and rooms for rent were everywhere and, within a few hours, she'd made an appointment to see a woman about renting a small efficiency apartment in Long Beach.

That woman turned out to be tall, leggy blond amazon by the name of Rosalie Hale. The business aspect of their meeting lasted no more than five minutes. Rosalie was grudgingly working for her father, and wanted nothing more than to irritate him in retribution for his dictating tendencies, so she gave Bella a deal she couldn't turn down on one of the family's many rental properties. Bella had eagerly used Rosalie's plan for revenge to her advantage after hearing the sordid tales of the Hale family.

Beyond that, she found she could relate to Rosalie. Bella had left her father in Forks, but not after putting him through teenage rebellion hell—smoking, drinking, and a tattoo on her back that she didn't remember getting. As far as she was concerned, he'd had it coming, but she could no longer deny that she hadn't made the most sound choices for herself. Charlie was an absentee father, emotionally unavailable, and most often too busy to send a concerned glance her way at her lower points in adolescence. She'd made it a point to learn what pissed him off. Any reaction became better than none.

None of this, however, was what had her on edge this evening. Not the thoughts of her history, not her man-whore boss, and not the elegant affair she'd been responsible for coordinating. She was nervous. A delicious, titillating kind of nervous, flutters of long dormant butterflies tickling her insides.

Tomorrow was Friday, and tomorrow she'd be at Emmett's pub—which she was somewhat ashamed to admit she didn't even know the name of—to see Edward.

"Edward." She let her lips and tongue taste his name, the sound breathy and formal, fitting for a name of such classical elegance. She wanted to experience its flavor over and over again, if only for the novelty. Most people these days chose names like Kaiden and Braden and Jaden, or something equally outlandish and overused, and that probably didn't rhyme nearly as well. Originality was good, but the masses were failing to realize how commonplace such trends had become. If she ever had kids, she decided she'd give them the option to change their names once they were old enough to decide whether or not they liked her choices. It only seemed fair. Kid would have to live with it forever, she thought with a mental shrug.

It occurred to her that she'd never asked Edward's last name, and the thought amused her. At least, it did once she got past the momentary panic that the thought of kids had steered her to wondering about Edward's last name. _Jumping the gun a little there, Bella?_

She'd asked him a hundred questions, about the music he liked, the instruments he played—guitar and piano, mostly, she'd learned—and who his musical influences were. She'd asked about his beer preference, his favorite movies, and they'd laughed together over their mutual fondness for the Monty Python boys, after humming a few lines to the Lumberjack Song. She'd asked about things that made him happy, and he'd given her exquisitely honest answers.

It was enough to learn that she wanted to get to know him better. Oh, holy hell, did she ever. If she'd asked a guy up to her apartment three years ago and he'd turned her down, she would have been mortified and ashamed at her presumptuousness. Somehow, she'd understood two nights ago. There was no question that he'd been tempted by her offer and, for reasons that she recognized on some deeper level, she admired his effort to resist. There was something there, something gloriously different about this man, and his actions only magnified her desire to get in his head and understand every nuance of him.

Getting obsessive, however, wasn't an option. It could be nothing at all. He could be like anyone else. He could be like Mike. Bella shook her head at the thought. No. Not like Mike, of that much she was almost certain. This was different, and she was loathe to label this with assumptions before she'd even given it a chance to develop. There was some elusive, invisible entity blossoming there that she didn't want to screw up. Sure, she was American and would eventually go back, and he was British and lived in London, but letting those details cloud a potentially good, true thing was asinine. Something real could happen here. Or was she foolishly putting all of her eggs in one basket out of desperation for a human connection?

The last time she'd ever really connected with anybody was... well, when was it? The truth of that matter was that she'd never had that with anyone, no matter how close she thought her friendships might have been at any given point. It was sad how many she'd had to go through to learn that fact.

Her dad, Mike, Jessica, and even Rosalie; though she was slowly improving all the time—all of these relationships lacked any real intimacy.

Tuesday night, though... he'd rattled off questions to her, about small town life, about her relationship with her father, about her childhood. She'd admittedly never gone into any great detail, but she'd been honest, and he'd never once given her anything but a silent offering of absolute understanding. There were things she didn't talk about with anyone, because she knew they lacked any capacity for empathy.

Something about Edward, in spite of his hesitation to speak of his family life, gave him that capacity, and it was a rare trait. She only feared what had put such a trait there, despite her gratitude. There was a giant, elaborately woven mystery to unravel, and she had an overwhelming urge to be the one to pull it apart.

Tomorrow night, she hoped, she'd be given a chance to untangle the first thread.

"Bella, we need your help." Angela's voice in the doorway broke her reverie, and Bella quickly shot to her feet.

"What's wrong?" she asked, taking quick, determined strides out of the room as Angela followed.

"The usual," Angela sighed, and Bella was certain that she was rolling her eyes behind her. "Laurent called that old guy a... an... _enfoi_—something, and now they're snipping back and forth at each other. I expect champagne to be thrown and foot-stamping at any moment."

Bella groaned, wishing for that cigarette for the twentieth time. "I'll take care of it."

Tomorrow. Only twenty-eight or so short hours away. She could make it until then.

* * *

**I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay, I sleep all night and I work all day...!**

**A few notes for reference:**

**The album Edward plays: Bob Dylan—The Times They Are A-Changin'**

**The Lumberjack Song (as well as this chapter's title) are Monty Python's Flying Circus references.**

**French-English translations:  
**

**_Merde_ – Shit**

**_Enfoiré – _Fuckhead**

**Should I feel bad that I'm teaching you people how to swear in French? **

**Big thanks to my beta (and co-conspirator), TwilightMomofTwo. If you haven't read her stuff, do it now, or face ugly consequences. **

**Thank you to those that have read, faved, and reviewed! It's appreciated immensely.**


	4. Under the Static

**4. Under the Static**

"Rosalie Hale!" Bella roared from the front door of their apartment, her hand twisting the door knob left and right, over and over, impatiently. "We're going to be late!"

"Calm the hell down, Bella!" Rosalie shouted from her room, the sound followed by a loud thump. "Shit. I'm getting my shoes on. What's the damn rush, anyway? He'll be there all night!"

Bella had half a mind to deny that she was going to the pub solely for the purpose of seeing Edward again, but it would have been blatantly dishonest. Not only did that not sit well with her sense of integrity, but Rosalie would have seen right through it instantly.

She chose a diversionary tactic instead.

"Don't act like you haven't been wiggling in your chair all day, waiting to see Emmett."

Rosalie appeared in the doorway of her room then, her lips twisted to one side and her sapphire eyes narrowed in challenge. Bella smirked, daring her roommate to disagree.

The blonde merely sighed and rolled her eyes. "Oh, get off your high horse, nerd. We're both creaming our panties over our Brit boys, no matter how much we try to deny it."

Bella groaned. "You couldn't have phrased that a tad _less_ tastefully, Rose? I was _so_ close to vomiting. With just a little more effort..." She stopped herself before she encouraged her friend further. "Come on, let's go already."

Rosalie grinned triumphantly. "I knew it." She sauntered forward, snatching her purse from the sofa, letting Bella lead her out of the apartment.

"Knew what?" Bella grumbled as she locked their door—checking the lock three times—and cringed a little at the trace of venom in her tone.

Rosalie was evidently unfazed. "You really like him."

_More than is rational or even remotely healthy_. "I've known him for a few collective hours, Rose. He's pretty, but... he could be a mass murderer for all I know. Or a drug addict. Or a communist, for crying out loud!"

"Sure," Rosalie played along in a nasal voice. "He could be a pygmy, or a vampire, or a leprechaun. What _are_ we thinking?"

Bella turned a flat glare on her friend, raising her arm to hail the nearest cab as they stepped onto the street.

"What?" Rosalie defended, shrugging. "If it sounds ridiculous, that's because it is. _You're_ being ridiculous."

"How am I being ridiculous?" A cab approached them. It never took long, really, with Rosalie and her twelve-mile-long legs and all their power of persuasion nearby.

Rosalie waited to reply until they were seated securely inside the back seat. "How many guys have you talked to recently that didn't cringe when you brought up your whole DeBeers tirade, or any part of your anti-romance campaign? Most of them think it makes you high-maintenance. Men don't know what to do with a woman that wants originality."

"I'm not anti-romance at all," she replied, unsure if her words were even loud enough for Rosalie to hear. She let her attention drift to the world outside the cab's windows as she absorbed the truth of Rosalie's words.

She sighed. It wasn't accurate, really. Originality wasn't the value she sought, but was simply a fringe benefit of the qualities she truly did desire in a friend or companion. Rationality, objectivity—hell, a simple application of the scientific method to all the things taken for granted in life, all the things everyone had ever been taught.

_Observation, hypothesis, experimentation_.

_Rinse, repeat._

She wanted someone who questioned things like she did, who accepted nothing blindly. It was a lot to ask, and she knew it. Blindness was easier. It was limiting and soul-crushing, but it was the compromise most settled for. No real lows, but no true highs, either.

Maybe she was pursuing knowledge of this enigmatic musician for the wrong reasons. Bella wasn't as together as she wanted to be, as she was working to be. Not yet. Was the desire for companionship merely escapism? Dependency? A way back to the bliss of blindness?

That was silly. She knew herself better than that. She hadn't actively sought anyone in the last three years; the reminder of her loneliness only sparked when she'd met Edward three nights ago. It wasn't as though she'd been without her share of opportunity when it came to male company. This was the first time in those three years that she'd been more than mildly moved by an encounter. And this hadn't been mild at all. If he'd come up to her apartment that night, she knew what she would have let happen, no matter what her better judgment argued.

"When you're right, you're right, Rose," Bella conceded quietly, letting her eyes glass over the sites of downtown London as they rode toward the little pub.

"I'm always right."

Bella peered to her side to see Rosalie smirking righteously beside her. "Yeah, like that guy from Glendale? What was his name...? Royce?"

Her blond brows drew close and her lips pursed. "Shut it, Swan."

Bella grinned.

* * *

Edward didn't see her immediately when she came in, already mid-way through his first song of the night. It was difficult to see the patrons of the pub clearly through the bright spotlights of the small stage, but he'd been scouring the faces as well as he could since he'd taken his seat at the piano bench.

He'd seen her before they'd spoken on Tuesday night, as she'd woven her way through the tables to sit at the bar, immediately chatting with the bird that Emmett had been drooling over all night. She was a sight, to say the least, but he'd thought nothing of it initially. Beautiful faces were abundant, beautiful minds were not, and the two rarely coincided in his experience.

He couldn't help but give into the indulgence of letting his eyes wander over her figure, however. Beauty was still beauty, and looking was harmless as far as he was concerned. He hadn't expected that the evening he'd spent with her would leave him reeling for days the way it had.

The same as it had happened on Tuesday, his eyes finally found her, lithe frame skirting around the thick Friday crowd, her eyes alight as she caught his gaze and sent him a smile.

He did one better. With a crooked smile, his hands paused over the keys and launched into a light, quirky tune that he was fairly certain she'd recognize.

~*~

Bella halted and abruptly burst into laughter as the notes floated their way through the building, immediately followed by his voice crooning a familiar string of brilliantly silly words.

"What's funny?" Rosalie asked, her head titled quizzically as she slid into one of the few empty bar stools.

Still laughing, Bella shook her head. "Monty Python."

It was all she could get out in her mirth, feeling dazed and dizzy at the idea that he'd apparently begun playing this just for her. By the looks on the faces of the other customers in the pub, and the expression of amused surprise on Emmett's face, this was not one of Edward's regular numbers.

After briefly assessing the crowd's reaction, she turned her eyes back toward her piano man, a grin that she couldn't move if she tried firmly glued on her lips. His accent had taken on exceptional thickness, that slight Cockney she'd picked up on before now theatrically prominent and painting his gold-coated words.

"If life seems jolly rotten, there's something you've forgotten, and that's to laugh and smile and dance and sing," she playfully sang along quietly as he continued into the second verse, letting him know that the offering was gratefully received and appreciated.

Edward grinned as he continued his overly dramatic performance, nodding that he'd gotten the message, and evidently trying not to laugh as a few people in the audience began to sing along with the chorus.

~*~

He kept his eyes in Bella's direction, finding it hard not to become distracted as he registered the effects that her presence had on him. Three days since he'd seen her, three sodding days to work himself into a tizzy of frayed nerves and an elaborate spiderweb of analyses, ideas, and questions. He'd found it increasingly difficult to refrain from asking Emmett if he'd gotten the telephone number for the girls' flat, knowing he'd likely appear uncouth and unstable if he rang without having asked Bella for her number first.

Three days of endless thinking had left him in a right unhinged state of anxiety, wondering if he'd dreamt the whole thing up, or that she wasn't anything like the memory he had of her. It was almost too much to think that he'd be up here performing for another forty minutes or so before he could take a break and speak to her. Opportunity, possibility... they were all but five meters away.

The thought spawned a surge of unexpected joy through him, and his smile grew as he watched her whistling along at the appropriate parts of the song, and the glimmer of merriment in her eyes as she watched him in turn. _Mutual, connected, invited_. Those words played through his mind a few times as he sang, sang to _her_, as cheeky as the song was.

Maybe nothing would come of it at all. Bugger all if he wasn't going to try and have some fun with it, though, however long this intrigue lasted.

~*~

Similar thoughts raced through Bella's mind as she watched the performance, absently singing along with the crowd with every chorus, a cacophony of various pitches and octaves. It was a mess, but at least they all got the lyrics correct as they drunkenly belted out, "Always look on the bright side of life!"

"You're not a bloody Scientologist, are you?" A deep English voice asked to Bella's left. She blinked, tearing her gaze from the stage and peered up quizzically at Emmett.

He just stared right back, unmoving from behind the bar.

Bella opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, then opened it once more. "Did you... did you just ask me if I'm a Scientologist?" Surely she hadn't heard him right.

Emmett just quirked an eyebrow, waiting for her answer as he absently popped open a bottle of champagne.

Rosalie's head turned slowly between the two of them, first at Emmett, then at Bella, then back at Emmett, her brow furrowing a little more with each rotation. "Seriously?" she mumbled.

"No, Emmett. I'm not a... _bloody_ _Scientologist_." Bella spoke with uncertainty, wondering if this was some sort of bizarre English custom that she'd failed to learn about. Her head tilted a little before she slowly turned her head, then broke her gaze and looked back to the stage.

Edward was just ending the song, sending her another crooked smile her way.

She caught herself sighing.

"I was just curious," Emmett continued in a much more lighthearted voice, pouring a glass of champagne and setting it before Rosalie with a wink, "since I've never heard the bloke singin' Monty Python in all of his career, and thought maybe you'd infected him with Thetins or whatever those buggers do to convert you."

Bella broke into a fit of snickers. "What are you, part of Operation Clambake?"

His thick brows knitted together humorously. He had no idea what she was talking about, evidently. "Whassat now, ducks?"

Her laughter faded to chuckles. "Nevermind."

He squinted one dark eye in mocking suspicion, paired with a smirk, before finally turning his attention back to Rosalie. Once there, Bella was little more than ignored for the next thirty-five minutes.

She was okay with that. Aside from taking sips from the glass of tonic water Emmett was always quick to refill, she was able to focus all of her attention on Edward, trying hard not to completely ensnare herself into an elaborate mess of intellectual warfare. Attraction was a completely natural, human thing; obsession and desire to this level with someone she barely knew was not.

But damned if she could tear her eyes away from his smooth, impeccably shaped lips as he sang, and the intensity of his absinthe eyes as though he was expelling too many years of wisdom into his lyrics; each tightly condensed within every four minute package.

It struck her then, as it had three nights before, she realized, but this time it didn't elude her. Perhaps because she hadn't learned until after the first performance that he wrote his own songs.

She knew the struggles he sang of, the truth—harsh, garish, but full of hope—the words that echoed that depth in his eyes. She knew that life, as though he'd taken pages from her internal diaries and molded them into eloquent, melodic offerings of empathy.

These weren't her words, though. These were his own, and they'd originated from something abrasive and horrible, something she knew so well, but she also recognized a triumph in his lyrics that she'd yet to know, a triumph that broke her heart with awe for him. This man could teach her things. She wondered if perhaps she could return the favor in kind.

~*~

Forty minutes—never had performance time been more tedious and agonizing. Edward enjoyed playing more than anything else, regardless of whether or not it was for an audience, but the sensation of something else to look forward to was startlingly refreshing, and it made time pass with mocking slowness.

The moments he could feel her eyes on him, though—the fleeting seconds she let her eyes drop to his hands before righting herself again as though she'd been caught doing something unthinkable—he couldn't resist but to relish the rush of it.

Tingles weren't rational. He hardly remembered an experience such as this even in his teenage years, save for a few scattered, green-tinged memories here and there. Tingles were fiscally worthless, devoid of any sort of inherent value, but the child in him—the very same one that rarely got to come out during the appropriate age bracket—wanted to take it as a great sign that, for once, things were turning right. Clearly, tingles were senseless beasts with no consideration for a poor bloke's sense of hope. How easily it could all be dashed, in verbose prose, with nothing more than a few short syllables, or even a single look, if one preferred brevity.

But _fuck_ all, if those tingles didn't felt glorious as he watched her watch him. The way her pink tongue would moisten her lips, probably unknowingly, as her eyes dropped to his mouth, down to his hands, then widen as she finally realized what she was doing. And then he'd revel as the routine began again.

Oh, the places his mind went. Too many bloody years of giving himself away for the cheapest thrills, too many subsequent years spent punishing himself for it, and too many with his life being governed by circumstances he couldn't change. It hadn't been that long since he'd been with a woman, he supposed, but long enough to make him wonder what a poor show he'd be for the first round. Might not be that bad, he nearly shrugged, his fingers playing as though he needed no thought behind it. The second round, though... the third, the fourth... the idea made him smile ever so softly, imagining as Bella watched his hands and lips with such thrall under drastically different settings.

He came dangerously close to clearing his throat, mid-lyric. Sense reared back into the forefront, and he managed to keep from shifting in his seat and alerting his watchers to his sudden predicament.

When it was finally over, and he could safely stand, he made a gracious bow for the cheering patrons—mostly regulars—and made his way to the bar where she was waiting for him.

Waiting for _him_. He felt like a bleedin' poofter for how incredibly lightheaded and giddy that made him feel. Her eyes had barely left him throughout the entire performance, and he'd come to another stunning realization about this new obsession of his. Her gaze was never predatory, despite her occasional strays, not like many of the women that often crowded the pub on Friday nights, but more than once he'd caught himself from nearly faltering simply as a result of the shock from the look on her face as she listened to his words.

She _liked_ his _music_. Her warm, dark orbs had remained intensely focused, her brow furrowed with pangs of recognition that he could identify immediately, and always in accordance with the more personal and pivotal lyrics in his songs. Never had he felt quite so naked, assuming that he'd always been merely hiding in plain sight, his words passed off as nothing more than filler—for his real talent was in his classically trained fingers. At least, that's what he'd been led to believe since he was barely more than a toddler. Most people he'd played for had never attempted to prove that wrong.

But Bella, honest, wise, inquisitive Bella... he had inadvertently let her hear his story tonight, and heard it, she had.

It made him tremble, unsure exactly how to handle himself as he approached her.

However, he didn't have much to worry about as far as icebreakers go.

"Your music really is astounding," she said, just loud enough to be heard over the noise.

Edward smiled and slid into the seat beside her, the seat that she'd clearly saved for him. Warmth rushed through him and he sighed. _Poofter_. "Thank you, Bella. I'm honored that you appreciated it." Did she know how much depth he put into those words, even as his mind wandered so far from propriety tonight?

Her answering smile, sad and equally comforting, told him that she did.

"I'm glad you came," he said simply, a crooked smile splashing over his face briefly.

"I told you I would," she replied, returning the expression with a knowing glint in her eyes.

His grin widened. "Not used to people keepin' their words."

"You must not have a lot of good friends."

Bella nearly felt compelled to retract her words immediately. It was another inadvertent test of sorts, and she hoped that she hadn't made it sound as much of a conclusion as it was a question.

Relief. He laughed.

"You have no idea," he sighed, finally turning his glance toward Emmett. He snickered when he saw his brother's focus was, of course, latched to Rosalie. "What's a bloke gotta do to get some service 'round here?"

"Go to another pub," Emmett shot back, reluctantly withdrawing himself from his conversation. Hastily, he snagged a bottle of beer from somewhere beneath the counter and shoved it toward Edward.

"I'll have a beer, thanks," Edward drawled, smirking as he popped off the cap from the corner of the bar. He turned back to Bella. "Case in point."

It was her turn to laugh. "He accused me of being a Scientologist earlier. Does he conduct all of his business this way?"

"Why do you think we never get tourists in here?" He chuckled before taking a few swift swallows from the bottle. He became aware then just how loud it was in the pub, and a less-than-brilliant idea found its way to his lips before he could think better of it. The tingles were raging again in full-force, merely a side-effect from being in close proximity to her. "It's soddin' deafening in here. Wanna go upstairs, love?"

He barely restrained himself from slamming his head into the wooden counter. Keeping his expression carefully neutral, he forced himself to keep his eyes on her face. "Ah... I mean..."

_Oh, sweet fuck, say yes._

"Yes," she answered without a trace of hesitation, nearly knocking him off his seat in surprise.

No sense in taking it back now, he reckoned. With a shrug and sudden swagger, he slid off the stool and offered his arm. "Follow me, then."

* * *

**Massive thanks to my beta, of course... TwilightMomofTwo.**

**Sorry for the delay! My work schedule got crazy. Good stuff coming up. Stay tuned.**


	5. Safe As Houses

**5. Safe As Houses**

The concrete looked warmer this time.

Edward cocked his head to the side as he opened the door to his flat, dim light flooding the room from a single lamp next to the couch that he'd left burning. How concrete managed to appear of any certain temperature was well beyond any reasoning, but, alas, it was so.

Letting his eyes fall to the brunette beside him, he smiled, gesturing with a hand that she enter before him. Her presence warmed everything in proximity, it seemed.

"'S not much, but... 's home," he mumbled, shrugging as he slid off his pea coat. He flung it over the arm of the couch, then lifted his hands from behind her, gingerly brushing his fingers against her shoulders. "May I?"

Bella blinked for a moment, then quickly nodded and dropped her courier bag against the wall, biting her lip as she let him slide her simple black jacket down her arms. "Thanks."

He didn't reply as he tossed the jacket to join his over the sofa arm, then shuffled toward the kitchen. "Can I get you a cuppa, ducks? Or coffee, perhaps?"

She turned to watch him as he made his way into the small kitchen opposite his modest sized living room, smirking.

_Ducks_. She'd heard Emmett say it a few times, but as strange as the expression was to her, it sounded sugary and musical in Edward's golden voice. Perhaps it was just the flutters that ignited in her stomach every time he addressed her with an endearment. Breaking from her thoughts, she realized he'd asked her a question. Her dark brows drew together. "A cuppa... what?"

"Mm?" He glanced over his shoulder to her as he flicked on his faucet. "Oh." Edward snickered then, holding a steel kettle beneath the stream of water. "Tea, love. You've been here how many months, an' you've never heard the word?"

She chuckled, rolling her shoulder into a sheepish shrug. "I suppose I never got to mingle enough with the locals to get to that intimate 'cuppa' stage. Laurent keeps me pretty busy." With slow steps, she followed his path into the kitchen, her eyes roaming over the environment. She could still see the worn couch from the cut-out on the kitchen wall that divided it from the living room, and the top of a dusty wood-framed television set just below its ledge. The upright piano blocked a portion of the view from beside the TV, and on the far wall she could see a record player and a few milk crates full of various items crammed in a corner; records and CDs, from what she could tell.

"I'll bet," he muttered, amusement and something else she couldn't identify in his tone. "Seems like quite a busy bloke, himself."

"You have no idea," she sighed, humor coloring her response. "And yeah, tea sounds nice. How long have you lived here?"

He set the kettle on the counter, and turned around with a thoughtful expression as he twisted a knob on the stove. There was a soft hiss, followed by the striking of a match as he ignited the gas on one of the burners. The place obviously hadn't undergone any major renovations in at _least_ a decade. "Four years now, I s'pose. Emmett used to live here before he could afford a bigger place. Now he's got a decent flat not too far from here."

Placing the kettle on the burner, he sent her a glance before darting his eyes away. He liked his place, felt no shame in it, but it occurred to him that she'd probably become accustomed to posh living in Westminster. He probably should have at least dusted the old telly off.

However, she hadn't seemed terribly put off, thus far. Since they'd stepped out of the pub and slowly sauntered around the building to the metal stairs at the back that led up to the flat, he'd been observing her meticulously. Her eyes were alight with that curiosity he was rapidly growing affection for, an innocence sparkling there as though every experience was her first. It quirked her plush lips in a way reminiscent of Mona Lisa, so slight that it appeared as natural as one's usual demeanor. He feared his heart would break at the very idea of seeing those lips reflect anything but joy. He wondered if a thing of such beauty had ever truly witnessed pain or grief, for the perpetual radiance she seemed to carry.

His gaze found her face again. Those eyes, those lips, then down to those fingers as they tugged absently at the ends of her sweater sleeves. Oh, the things he could imagine with those delectable parts of her, the way he predicted her delicious grosgrain voice could hitch and gasp, his name dancing on the sounds.

Quite suddenly, he realized his lungs badly needed air, and he carefully drew in a breath, so as not to alert her to his disposition with an unwarranted gasp.

Bella didn't notice. She let her gaze wander over the sparse kitchen. Stove, sink, refrigerator, and two square feet of counter space. There was a lovely rack of stainless cookware hanging above the stove, however, and she tilted her head as she observed its quality. All expensive items, she could tell immediately, and with a homey degree of wear. Suddenly, she felt the urge to ask him if he could cook, too, to go along with his laundry list of artistic talents. She opted to smile instead. "I like it here."

"Here... you mean London, or... _here_, here?"

Bringing her eyes back to his face, she noticed he looked a little nervous, and she offered a smile. "_Here_, here. It's warm and cozy. Reminds me a little of home. It's not cold like that gaudy place in Westminster." Her smile widened when she saw the tension melt from his face. "It's inviting."

With a soft laugh, Edward nodded. Inviting was the word he'd thought of her when he'd seen her in the pub earlier. "Glad you like it. Have a seat in the parlor, if you want. Get comfortable."

Nodding, she wandered back to the living room and fell onto the couch, her head leaning against the plaid blanket that draped over the back. From here she could see the front of the piano and the TV, which had a noticeable layer of dust over its screen. She could also see Edward through the cut-out above, his back toward her as he fished through a cupboard for something. Cups, she noted, watching the muscles shift in his back as he set the cups on the counter, lines distinct with every move that he made, even through the black t-shirt he wore.

Heat instantly flooded through her entire body. _Oh, dear_.

It was then she remembered her curiosity of whether or not he was covered in tattoos, and she let her eyes slide to the visible skin of his arms.

There. Just beneath the ends of his sleeves, she could see the edges of a tattoo of some kind on both arms when he moved certain ways. The ink seemed to wrap nearly all the way around his biceps, and she instantly craved to see the quarter-sleeves he was hiding under there, and the taut muscles that bore them.

Her pulse quickened at the idea.

"I know you Yanks like it straight, but can I offer you cream, love?" His voice rang like lovely wooden chimes.

_Nearly there already_. She cleared her throat to break up the vulgarity that had involuntarily flooded her thoughts. "That would be nice."

Naturally, her eyes didn't leave his form as he finally came toward her, a cup in each hand, one of those lean arms outstretched in offering. She accepted it gratefully, the distraction of having something to do with her hands welcomed.

"Put a spot of honey in there," he commented, his eyes locked on her as he took a seat beside her. "Hope you don' mind. 'S better that way." He shrugged, earning a smile from her.

"I don't mind at all," she replied, another surge of warmth washing over her as she saw his face break into a returning grin. How people didn't constantly trip over themselves in the presence of such a smile was nearly shocking to her. Everything else in the room vanished, and there was only that face bejeweled with glimmering absinthe eyes and gleaming white teeth. Reactions such as these just didn't exist in her atmosphere. There was very little she knew about him. So little, in fact, that the question that slipped past her lips suddenly was a surprise to even her. "What's your last name?"

Edward blinked, turning his head to face her more fully, his expression inquisitive at her unexpected question. He almost laughed as he watched her face flicker from flustered to moderately satisfied, as though deciding it wasn't a wholly inappropriate question. "Cullen."

"Edward Cullen," she said, trying it on for size. The words fit nicely on her tongue. "It suits you."

Edward had noticed just how well he liked the fit of his name on her lips, as well, and tried to shrug off a shiver. "'S very... British," he shrugged, taking a sip from his cup and setting it down on the end table at his side. "Jus' like me, I reckon."

She snickered, shaking her head as she brought her cup to her lips, watching as his form slid languidly down from the couch and knelt before a milk crate of records. The view was enough to leave her momentarily breathless, once again met with the visage of the sharp lines of his back muscles.

"But thanks," he continued, pawing through the records. "Anyway, what's yours, love?"

The cup at her lips, her voice muffled, she quietly replied, the word distorted and inarticulate as a result of her instant distraction. "Swan."

Turning to look over his shoulder at her, he grinned crookedly. "Sorry, didn' quite catch that. Did you say _Swine_?"

She nearly sputtered out the tea, but managed to swallow before she broke into a snicker. "No, I did not say Swine."

"That's a relief," he muttered, turning his attention back to his vinyl collection with his grin spread wider. "I was afraid I'd have to tell you how much yours suits you, as well."

"I'm glad you think so highly of me," she shot back, playfully. "It's Swan."

He looked at her again, introspectively this time. "It really does suit you." He considered this statement a moment more. "'S a little... romance novel-ish, innit?"

Bella chuckled. "There's a reason I don't talk to my parents anymore."

An eyebrow shot up, and Edward's gaze didn't waver for a good five seconds before he let go of the curiosity that lingered on his tongue. No doubt there was a story there, and the words struck him in an oddly familiar way, though he still communicated with his parents. If rarely, anyway.

Instead, he offered a nod and a smirk, as though acknowledging she'd been kidding about her reasons. Shuffling once more through his records, his brow furrowed. "This is the second time this has happened."

Bella blinked, her head tilting as she watched him. "What's that?"

"I can' figure out what to listen to." He sat back onto the floor from his crouched position, turned slightly to face her. "It probably seems insignificant, but..."

He faltered over his words, aware of how crazy he was about to sound. Probably right off his nutter. Then again, she'd shown nothing but interest and objectivity despite his tangential ramblings to her throughout the short duration of their friendship.

She was looking at him with rapt attention, silently urging him to continue.

"I've always, for the last ten years, come home an' known exactly what it was I wanted to listen to," he explained, drawing his words out carefully. "'S the first thing I do. Usually somethin' classical or baroque after a long day, or maybe The Sex Pistols or The Clash when I'm tryin' t' get my blood flowin' again. But I always knew the minute I walked in." He paused to take in her expression, seeing nothing but eagerness written in her small, encouraging smile. Drawing in a breath, he looked back to the crate of vinyls, gesturing with a flick of his hand. "When I walked you home that morning, I came back here, an' I had no bloody idea. I settled on Bob Dylan, of all things, an' realized I hadn' been in a mood to listen to Bob Dylan in... a long time. An' now... 'm not sure again."

As he turned his jade gaze back to her, Bella realized that there was significance to this, and it hit her with great sobriety. And familiarity, she recognized with a degree of subtle shock.

Bob Dylan had little to do with it, she knew. Bob Dylan was simply the amalgam of all things that represented new feelings; the wrench thrown into the gears of routine.

Like her, Edward hadn't experienced a reason to externally stray from such routine. Things had become mundane, uniform; souls damned to walk a lower plane, amongst faceless drones, that lacked intimacy, intensity, and feelings beyond muted resentment that there was no place, no _one_ in the world that quite got it. Or perhaps they were the simply two of the few that refused to compromise their integrity for the sake of blending in, and they paid the price for it, emotionally.

Swallowing, Bella set down her cup beside the lamp on the other end table and slid down to the floor on her knees. Slowly, she crawled the three feet that separated them and smiled. "Let me help, then."

Edward watched her as she began to flip through the albums, his breath catching each time she would flick a glance up at him, or when her lower lip would tuck between her teeth like she was in some form of internal debate. When she smiled suddenly, he nearly keeled over, staggered by the instantaneous compulsion to reach out and touch her lips, to experience the warmth of that smile's inherent sunlight.

"This one," she said, sliding the chosen record out of the crate and displaying it to him.

The smirk that reached his lips was involuntary. "Moondance," he agreed with reverence. "Van Morrison's always safe as houses, yeah?"

She laughed softly at the expression. "Into the Mystic gets me every time I hear it, and I've heard it... well, a lot." Her tone was indicative of deep-laden affection, a memoir that had grafted itself deeply under her skin. "I haven't listened to it in a long time, though."

"Like me an' Bob Dylan," he chuckled, tilting the jacket so the record slid cleanly out into his careful fingers. With the utmost delicacy, he held the record by its edges and got upright to his knees, gently placing it onto the turntable.

The tattoo edge that laced his left bicep had a vibrant red, multi-layered background in an abstract weaving pattern, she could tell from her up-close and personal view as he fiddled with the record player. It was intricate, with clean, consistent lines that never wavered in thickness, and she knew enough about the art to know that this was the hand of someone very skilled. Inwardly, she wished his sleeve would inch up just a little more so that she could tell what the art depicted, what focal point he'd chosen for life-long representation. She wondered if he regretted his choice now. There was altogether too much to wonder about, too much to fill a single evening with him. More time. She'd need lots more time.

The silence was broken with the quiet strains of an acoustic guitar, soulful in its resonance, even detectable through the way the musician's hands finger-picked the strings as though the instrument was the love of his life.

He'd skipped right to Into the Mystic. The appreciation revealed itself in a slow smile, and then he was before her, his face no more than a foot from hers, the milk crate of records between them.

"You know," she spoke up again, unaware that her face was tilting infinitesimally closer, "your ...er, accent is... well, different than it was the first night."

Chagrin flitted over his face for a moment, and he reluctantly nodded. "I should apologize for that." Pausing for a moment, he lowered his eyes before looking back up to her with reconsideration. "Well, for the inadvertent misleadin', I mean. My mum and dad raised me in a very... proper household, but I was the middle child, yeah? I ended up leavin' home for a few years, spent most of my teen years 'round the gutter punks and the hooligans, as they put it." A small laugh trickled up his throat, and he shook his head as he remembered the disgust from his parents, the disdainful way they'd spat the word _hooligan_ at him like it had pained them to do so. It was amusing in retrospect.

"The speech stuck," he continued, "but... I have these ingrained habits, y'know? '_Be polite and articulate, especially around proper company_' and all that arbitrary... rubbish." He shrugged, distaste tarnishing the word as though he simply couldn't think of a more fitting expression. Blinking a few times, he let his eyes linger on hers. "I sometimes don' realize I still do it, but if 'm not doin' it now, I s'pose that only means I find myself comfortable around you."

Bella smiled, involuntarily inching closer, drawn in by the humor that glimmered in his eyes. "Safe as houses?"

Taking the initiative to close the distance between them, he lifted a hand to gingerly brush her cheekbone.

"Safe as houses," he repeated, his absinthe gaze fixed on her mahogany one.

For as long as he could remember, Edward had always experienced kisses with his eyes closed. It was the way they did it in movies, the way his friends had always kissed their birds. It was a trust thing, he'd been told. Closed eyes meant one trusted the person they were kissing.

From the moment his lips brushed hers, he couldn't bring himself to close his eyes, absorbed in the way her lips parted to welcome him. He could see the fall of her chest as he stole her breath, and the way her mouth molded to the kiss. He could witness firsthand that his lips were the ones she'd chosen to grace hers with, with no modicum of uncertainty.

_Bollocks to that theory_. There was no lack of trust in this kiss.

It awoke his body in ways he hadn't felt in so long, and he wondered if he'd have any life left in him once they parted. After a moment of this dire deliberation, he noticed that her eyes were open to slivers, as well, and the fingers he suddenly felt threading themselves through his hair attested that she was trying to experience this sensation from every possible angle and sense, the same as he.

The crate was pushed out of their way, when and by whom, he had no recollection. Soon enough, his arms had encased her slight form around the waist, and he could feel the heat projecting from her, melding with his own developing warmth. He had a knee between hers, and she had a knee between his, trying to eliminate any unnecessary space between them.

Bella couldn't get close enough, her body beating down her rationality with a blunt object, as much as it repeated to her that this was moving way too fast. Sex was the worst possible way to start a relationship, an offering from both parties that needed to be earned, and only after intellectual and emotion values had been established. Sex too early became a bargaining chip, and usually just incurred resentment and self-doubt that it had been offered too fast.

_Too fast. Too fast. Too fast. _

Her lips became firmer against his, both breathing hard against the kiss, and neither minding.

_Too slow. Too slow. Too slow. _

Fingers clutching his thick, copper locks, Bella urged him closer, as though begging him to just penetrate her skin from head to toe, any distance too far.

_Too fast. It's been too long. You're just starved from years of sexual abstinence!_

Sense was slowly creeping back into her psyche, but Edward didn't seem to be willing to let her get her bearings. She instantly found herself losing all will as his tongue darted inside her mouth, playfully stroking hers.

As had happened on Tuesday, she was two inches from abandoning all well-established boundaries and standards, and ready to give herself away on this floor, on his worn living room area rug.

A sudden knock on the door ripped them both from surreality and knocked sense back in with a nearly audible _whoosh_.

Panting, Bella blinked rapidly as she met Edward's eyes, seeing plainly that he'd been battling with himself, too. His green orbs reflected contrition, but as the knock came again, she found herself wondering if it was solely regret for the interruption. She was about to bring it up before a voice beat her to the opportunity.

"Edward! I know you're home. Em told me you were. I need to see you."

The voice was delicate, English, upset, and unmistakably feminine. Bella tore her eyes from Edward and glanced toward the door.

"My sister," he clarified immediately, seeing her surprised reaction. Louder, he directed his words in the direction of the door. "Keep your soddin' shirt on, Alice. Give us a tick."

Focusing on Bella once more, he winced, slowly drawing himself up to get back to his feet. He outstretched a hand to aid her, as well. "'M sorry. That was right brutish of me to get so carried away."

Bella chuckled, nervously, letting him pull her to her feet. "Well, I wasn't exactly holding back."

"No," he agreed without missing a beat, amusement playing over his features as he released her hand. Bella just snickered in spite of her chagrin.

"Edward!" The voice from the other side of the door insisted.

"Oi!" He shouted back, shuffling to the door as Bella picked up her coat from the couch. "Keep a bleedin' lid on it for two minutes, would you?"

Swinging the door open, a petite young woman with stylishly cropped black hair pushed her way inside, her crystal blue eyes red-rimmed and glassy. She started when she saw Bella.

"Alice?" Edward said with sudden alarm as he saw the state of his sister, gently grasping her arm as he kicked the door closed. "What happened?"

"I'm sorry," she sniffled, turning out of Edward's hold and extending her hand to Bella. "I didn't know you had company. I'm Alice, Edward's sister."

"Bella," she replied, her brow furrowed in concern as she shook Alice's hand. "Are you... alright?"

"You're American!" the lovely pixie-like woman exclaimed, clearly delighted with that fact, despite the tear stains that marred her porcelain skin. Then the thought seemed to draw her depression back in just as suddenly. She cleared her throat, sending a watery smile toward the other woman. "How do you know Edward?"

"The pub," Edward quickly replied, drawing Alice back to face him with a light tug to her arm. "What's the matter, Al?"

Alice's eyes flickered quickly toward Bella, then back to Edward, despair etching itself onto her pretty features. "He's coming back, Edward. He's coming back to London, after all this..." She broke off to gasp raggedly.

Before Edward could work out who Alice was talking about, Bella slipped past them toward the door. "I should leave you two. It was nice to meet you, Alice." She offered a genuinely sympathetic look. "I hope everything's alright."

"You have to go?" Edward blurted out, momentarily forgetting his little sister's distress.

"Please don't," Alice piped in, bringing a crumpled tissue to her nose. "You don't have to. I really didn't mean to interrupt. It's really nothing, anyway. I'm just overreacting, I'm sure."

Bella was already shaking her head in disagreement. "No, really. I should go before Rosalie starts worrying, or before I do..." _Something I really shouldn't_, she finished internally, deciding it wasn't the best thing to say in front of Edward's sister.

Clearly, Edward had been able to mentally complete her sentence, as well, and shame clouded his face.

"Bella..." He wanted to apologize again, and talk out what had just happened, but he knew he was already in for the Spanish Inquisition with Alice witnessing as much as she had, as it was.

"It's okay, Edward," she whispered.

He swallowed, opting for another topic. "Will I see you again?"

A warm smile quirked her lips, and she looked at him levelly. "Of course, don't be silly. Wasn't planning to disappear. Here." Quickly, she snatched her courier bag from against the wall and ripped a piece of paper and a pen from it. After a brief scribble, she took his hand, clasping it as she shoved the shred of paper in his palm. "You can call me anytime."

Relief that everything hadn't completely been completely buggered washed over him, and he lifted her hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss on her knuckles. "I will, then. Be safe, love."

"As houses," she sang, playfully winking as she trod out the door. "Goodnight. Goodnight, Alice."

"Nice to meet you, Bella!" Alice called after her just before the door shut. Her drama temporarily forgotten, she turned a sharply arched ebony brow to her older brother, a devious smirk on her pearl-pink lips. "And who, dear brother, is that?"

* * *

**Huge thanks to my beta, TwilightMomofTwo, who works diligently to keep me consistent, and corrects my stubborn lack of proper comma usage. And... TMoT, is it weird that I keep thinking all of Edward's speech should be spelled in British English, too? Like... realise instead of realize? Lol.  
**

**Also... alright, kids, I'm not a review-ransomer... I think that's a manipulative way of getting people to kiss your ass, and it doesn't sit right with me when I see people do it. Makes me NOT want to review. Reviews are completely inorganic that way.**

**However... I do want to express that I really do appreciate feedback. It's good for a writer to know strong points and weak points, and if things are going well on a conceptual level—i.e. Does everything make sense in the story, or am I being too vague? Or perhaps I spell things out too much? It's helpful to know.**

**I got two reviews for the last chapter. I am very thankful to those that composed them, as they know, since I replied in length. Heh. But the lack of feedback was a little disappointing, if you want honesty. Doesn't mean you're obligated to review. _Of course_ you're not. I just think it's probably my responsibility to emphasize that I do really take feedback seriously, and I'd like to hear what you—the demographic—think. **


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